I used to believe strength was something you were born with-either you had a strong will, or you were weak-minded. Just like how you were either inherently good or evil. That kind of black-and-white thinking brought me comfort, helping me make sense of the things that happened in my life. I never saw the world in shades of grey-I despised it. Grey was unsettling, creating confusion and inner conflict. It never occurred to me that true strength is forged during hardship, in moments when you’ve lost more than you’ve ever gained.
I wasn’t always strong. I was once fragile, easily swayed by the opinions and hurtful words of those around me. Their insults cut deep, and every harsh comment seemed to chip away at my soul. I was like an exposed nerve, raw and vulnerable, trying to navigate a world that felt too complex and overwhelming.
My story begins in the Silver Moon Pack, nestled deep within the woods. My life wasn’t one of tragedy. Misery and trauma didn’t shape my sensitive nature. Life treated me fairly, as it does for most people. The good and bad moments blended together, crafting a life that, from the outside, seemed pleasant enough.
There are gaps in my childhood memories, likely due to a head injury I suffered, but forgetting those things never really bothered me. I had two loving parents, which is more than many people can say. My dad had this infectious smile that could light up a room and a laugh that could send anyone into fits of joy. He brought so much brightness to my life, even during the dark times. My mom was our rock, the steady force holding us together with her kind and gentle nature. She’d often laugh at Dad’s antics, her eyes filled with the simple joy that came from having a happy family.
But as life often does, tragedy struck. I lost my dad when I was only eight years old-too young to hold onto many memories of him. Yet, the one that stands out most is from the night we built a bonfire in the woods behind our house. A bear had wandered into the clearing, scaring me so much that I clung to my dad’s sweatshirt. The bear prowled closer, unaware of the danger it faced. In my panic, I fell back and hit my head on the ground. My dad, without hesitation, chased the bear away that night. He didn’t carry fear with him like I did.
That was the night my memories became hazy, a mist clouding the ones I wanted to hold onto. Some remained clear, but others slipped away, lost in that fog.
Mom mourned as widows do, and we clung to each other, terrified that one of us might be next. Life without my dad was an adjustment, to say the least. Grief washed over me faster than it did my mom, leaving me frustrated with the world. How could someone be ripped from your life so easily, someone who left a void that couldn’t possibly be filled? For a whole year, I searched for something to fill that emptiness, anything to ease the ache in my heart.
It was the day after my ninth birthday that I met Andrea.
Despite my protests, Mom threw me a party like she did every year. But this one felt hollow. It was my first birthday without Dad, and not many of the invited kids showed up, though I wasn’t surprised. Friends were hard to come by during that time in my life. I didn’t know how to fit in with the other children, always unsure of what to say or how to act around them.
The next morning, I woke up early and wandered out of the house. Our backyard seemed enormous, though that might just be my childhood memory playing tricks on me. An old swing set sat at the edge of the woods, a place where my dad and I used to play. Frustration welled up inside me as I tried to recall the way he looked when he pushed me on that swing. Anger clouded my judgment, making me fearless when I should have been cautious.
Determined, I ventured into the woods, desperate to find the bonfire site where I had lost so many precious memories. My parents had always warned me never to wander off alone, but their voices were just distant echoes in my mind.
I realized I was lost when I heard the sound of rushing water. It led me to a wide stream, its clear waters bubbling over rocks covered in thick green moss. As I admired the mossy stones, I noticed a pair of golden eyes staring back at me. A boy, about my age, stood there with lips parted in surprise. His red hair glinted in the sunlight, and though I was too young to see boys as anything more than playmates, there was something striking about him. His skin was tanned and smooth, his golden eyes reflecting the hues of the sunlight.
“Hello!” I called, raising a hand to wave. That was the first time I saw Andrea, and I watched in silence as he turned and ran. Our friendship didn’t begin instantly, but over time, I kept returning to the stream to meet him. Every weekend, we’d spend the whole day together.
He became my first friend. Mysterious, yet kind and charming.
The following weekend, I found him again by the stream, poking the water with a stick. This time, when he saw me, he smiled-a crooked grin-and motioned for me to join him.
“I’m Andrea,” he said, handing me a stick of my own.
“Isabella,” I grinned back, feeling a warmth inside me. For the first time, I had a friend.
Over the years, I watched Andrea grow. He kept the beauty he had as a boy, but his features matured into those of a man. His red hair remained, as did his golden eyes, but his once-boyish frame became lean and muscular. He never spoke of his family or where he went when he wasn’t at the stream. And I never asked. Our time together was an escape from the realities of our lives.
High school came, and with it, more challenges. Fitting in was harder than ever, and making friends felt impossible. But I did find a second friend-Bianca Rossi. She was short, with dirty blonde hair and freckles scattered across her face. We spent most of our time together, but Andrea was never far from my mind.
One Friday, after a particularly rough day at school, I ran home in tears. Some kids had pinned me against a locker and ruined my white blouse with fruit punch. Instead of going inside, I ran to the stream, hoping Andrea would be there. He wasn’t. My tears fell into the water, and as I stared into the stream, I saw a girl’s face peering back at me-porcelain skin, white hair, and crystal-green eyes.
“Isabella?” Andrea’s voice, calm and confused, broke through my thoughts. I turned to face him, but when I looked back at the water, the girl was gone.